


Basic Fluency

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Luke, Caf and Sweetcakes and Fake Dates, Coming Out, Dyslexic Han, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Power Lesbian Leia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Transgender Han
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13279803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Luke Skywalker hates being a freshman at Corellian College, no matter how much he loves being around his sister. But Leia can be bossy; she's constantly trying to drag him out of his dorm room to make new friends, especially in the Alliance club, refuge of LGBT students that Luke's certain will snub him. After endless prodding, however, she finally gets Luke to attend a meeting, promising to help him with Basic afterward.There's just one catch. Leia will simultaneously be tutoring Luke's annoying classmate, Han Solo.This is going to be terrible.





	Basic Fluency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveispurple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveispurple/gifts).



> Happy holidays, [captainskysolo](http://captainskysolo.tumblr.com/)! Sorry that this is so incredibly late. To make up for it, I tried to incorporate elements of each of your three possible prompts into the fic. I hope you enjoy the results. <3
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful drift partner, [betts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts), for looking this over and dragging me back into Star Wars in the first place. I love you, but you know.

The doorknob to Luke’s side of his shared bathroom rattles, but it’s hardly an akorec. No, it’s something far worse, attacking like clockwork every day around four in the afternoon. Luke could spare a glance to watch the lock turn, commit the sight to memory like any other cheap scare in a second-rate horror movie. As far as he’s concerned, the posters of TIE fighters and X-Wings plastered to the ancient dorm ceiling above his bed are much more interesting.

A final _click,_ and his bathroom door swings open.

“You’re getting better at picking that,” Luke tiredly tells Leia.

“Practice makes perfect.” He can practically hear her smirking. Then again, Luke just knows his sister too well to believe that she isn’t. Luke loves her dearly; her rebellious streak and curiosity and plain old lack of personal boundaries, however, not so much.

“You could knock.”

Leia shoves his crossed legs off the bed and makes herself at home. “And where’s the fun in that?”

“This is _exactly_ why most universities don’t have unisex dorms,” he tells her, folding his arms behind his head, finally looking at Leia. Her hair is elaborately coiffed, as per usual, braids and twists that must take her at least an hour to fix every morning. It suits her, though, whether Leia’s dressed up or wearing an extracurricular shirt or going to class in her pajamas.

“No one told you to request the room next to mine.”

“If I recall correctly, _you_ told me to request the room next to yours.”

She smiles, and Luke envies that, her easy happiness. “So maybe I did. It’s not like we didn’t have approximately ninety-seven years of catching up to do or anything. Besides,” and Leia scoots up the bed to lie down beside him, “somebody’s got to make you leave your room and stop pouting.”

Luke scowls. “I don’t pout.”

“You _absolutely_ pout.”

“Maybe if you’d stop trying to drag me to your clubs.”

She elbows him in the ribs. “Only the one. You’d like it if you’d just show up.”

“I’m not an L, G, B, or a T,” says Luke, rolling his eyes over to look at her. “And none of that, ‘But you _are_ an A,’ nonsense. We both know how welcome aces usually are.”

Leia gives the most exaggerated gagging noise Luke thinks he’s ever heard. “Look,” she begins, “just because you grew up on the most conservative planet known to mankind doesn’t mean every Alliance is out to snub you. Maybe Aunt and Uncle don’t get it, but you won’t know if other people will tolerate and understand unless you get out once in a while beyond going to class, the cafeteria, and the library.”

Luke opens his mouth to object, but she keeps going, a one woman debate squad. “Don’t pull the, ‘All of my friends went to Imperial because Uncle Owen is a dick,’ bullshit.”

“Wedge got into Starstrike,” mumbles Luke. He doesn’t know why he bothers—there’s no way Leia’s listening.

“I mean, I get that you’re upset about not being allowed to join up. Really, I promise, I do.”

“Says the girl whose Force-parents will pay for a double major in women’s studies and queer theory.”

Leia exhales heavily, then props herself up on one elbow to look down at him. “You have to look at this as an opportunity for personal growth. To learn more about...well, everything. Literature, politics, agricultural science—”

“Dear _Force,_ no,” Luke says, wincing.

“—and maybe learn how to make friends beyond the weird kids you grew up with.” She raises her eyebrows and grins. That’s never a good sign. “I bet you’d like the junior I’m tutoring in freshman Basic.”

“What, _another_ one?” When Leia frowns, Luke explains, “There’s one in my class, that’s all.”

“He wouldn’t be named Han, would he?”

And yes. Yes, he would. Han Solo, the cocky kid who sits at the back of the class with his feet on the seat of the desk beside him. Han Solo, who never knows an answer and just cracks jokes when he gets called on. Han Solo, whose best friend is an unkempt, long-haired hippie that doesn’t talk; wears an ancient, oversized brown hoodie; and doesn’t answer to anything besides “Chewie”. Han Solo, who, like his friend, apparently owns exactly one outfit. Han Solo, who’s on his third and last chance to pass Basic, as the professor frequently reminds him.

Han Solo, supremely annoying asshole.

“Yeah. That’s him.” He pauses. “You’re going to tutor him in the library, right? Wait, how did you even _meet_ him?”

“He’s vice-president of the campus Alliance, which you would know already if—”

“If I ever left my room. Because I pout.” Luke absolutely isn’t pouting right now, of course. “But tutoring sessions in the library.”

Leia prods him in the chest. “Why miss the chance to tutor you both?”

“I wish you’d never tested out of Basic.”

“And I wish you’d—”

 _“Leave my room,_ yes, favorite only sister, I get it.”

She hauls herself over him and starts back to her room. “Actually, I'd be tutoring him in the library regardless," Leia says.

“Why?” asks Luke, returning to his favorite hobby of poster-gazing.

“That friend of his looks like he’d shed everywhere, and I have enough of my own hair stuck in the carpet.”

 

* * *

 

This is terrible. There is nothing about this situation that isn’t horrible. Leia is the evil twin.

Luke hates social situations now that his friends have scattered across the galaxy. He doesn’t want to meet new people; he’s not interested in hanging out with anyone but his personally-modded R2 computer. (It beeps and boops at him. Surely that’s enough.)

But Leia had given him a time to meet in the library, and Luke dutifully showed up, only to find that she’d tricked him into attending an Alliance meeting.

“We’ll teach you how to write afterward,” she promises.

“I hate you.” He doesn’t.

“I know.” She’s aware.

The meeting isn’t as bad as he expected, though it’s still terrible and horrible, Luke feeling even more awkward than he had at freshman orientation. He has no idea what to say; Leia considers herself obligated to save Luke from his self-inflicted boredom, but Luke isn’t really ready to talk about himself. Not at all.

Which means, of course, that Leia asks him to introduce himself. How did she get in charge of this club so quickly?

Luke stands up, because he’s a Good Brother, palms sweating. He doesn’t recognize anyone but Chewie and Han, the latter of which is staring right at Luke with a shit-eating grin that Luke wants to wipe off his face.

“I’m Luke Skywalker—”

“HI, LUKE!” Han’s so loud and brash and his voice practically echoes in the study lounge. Chewie turns and grumbles at Han, the very definition of onomatopoeia. “Well it’s _kind_ of like AA, except no alcohol or anonymity. So, uh. Just the introducing part, I guess.”

Luke takes a deep breath. _Ignore the idiot,_ he tells himself. _Just pretend he doesn’t exist._ “I’m Leia’s brother, Luke. She lied to get me to show up. All I really wanted was help with the prewriting for my essay.”

“And?”

He narrows his eyes at Leia. “And that’s it.” Luke sits down. He doesn’t pout.

The rest of the meeting flies by, mostly because Luke isn’t participating, though Leia still manages to rope him into a bake sale. Soon enough, everyone’s filing out except for him and Leia and Han. Even Chewie’s making an exit, which might be the most surprising thing that’s happened at university so far.

Before Luke can move, Han’s plopping down into the chair right next to him, swinging his bookbag up onto the table. “What’s up, kid?”

“The ceiling. The sky.”

“You always this friendly?” Luke listens to Han unzip his bag, decides to do the same. “Even Chewie isn’t this much of a grump.”

Luke almost feels bad about being caustic. “I’m not really here to make friends,” he tells Han. “That’s all.”

“Just want to get it over and done with?”

“Basically.”

Han chuckles. “You and me both.” He winks as he adds, “Tutor’s pretty cute, though.”

Yup. This is going to be terrible.

 

* * *

 

They’re a month into the semester now, fully past refreshing grammar and pointless writing exercises and boring reading assignments. Luke has never understood why a required Basic course is even necessary, let alone two of them. It’s boring, not to mention taking up time when Luke could be taking an introduction to programming class instead.

Maybe it would be more tolerable if the professor didn’t smell like fish and wasn’t prone to running off on fatalistic tangents. Probably not.

Luke has a partner in crime now—at least, that’s what Han had deemed the two of them. He’s made Luke start sitting next to him in the back of the classroom, dragging him to the desk where Han used to put his feet. “We’re in this together now, kid,” he’d said. “Two of us against Corellian College.”

“And what about him?” Luke had asked, pointing to the ever-present Chewie.

“Oh, this furry asshole?” Han snickered. “He’s hiding from his office hours and half of the engineering department. Except for me, of course, but nobody can resist my charm.”

 _“He’s_ a professor? And _you’re_ an engineering major?” Luke winced as soon as the words left his mouth. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

But Han had just shrugged it off. “Used to people thinking I’m stupid. All part of the dyslexic experience.”

It all made sense then—the bravado, the unwillingness to answer questions in class, his complete misunderstanding of all the reading material. “You could get accommodations.”

“Have _you_ ever tried convincing college bureaucracy that you need help?”

Luke had started making copies of his notes after that. He tried to pay more attention in class, too, mind-numbing as it was. Leia still had to walk Han through it step by step during all of their tutoring sessions, leaving Luke to doodle in the margins of handouts. When she made them exchange Ackbar’s constant stream of short essays, Luke was kinder when attacking Han’s work with a red pen.

“You like him, don’t you?” Leia had asked him, kicking Luke’s shin as they studied one night in his room.

He startled, knocking the mimeographed copy of a passage from _Life’s Memories_ off of his face. “Like who?”

“I believe she is inquiring as to your feelings toward your classmate,” Leia’s C3 tablet had helpfully supplied. Luke’s R2 started screeching from his desk, and that was the end of the conversation. There was no interrupting their electronics when they got into a semi-verbal sparring match, and thank the Force for that.

 

* * *

 

The assignment Luke’s been dreading the most since he saw it on the syllabus: a narrative paper. It’s due at the end of the week, and they have to exchange with another student for a peer review. Predictably, Han snatches Luke’s rough draft off of his desk, then tosses his own over.

Chewie isn’t present today; Luke can’t decide if he’s more glad that Han can’t share Luke’s essay, or if he actually misses the giant walking carpet.

Regardless, Luke knows his paper is insipid at best, the same complaints he always has. Leia keeps reminding him that not everyone is interested in brooding nonfiction. But Luke just doesn’t know what to write about beside what bothers him most: all of his friends, scattered to various Imperial academies, exactly where he wants to be.

“You could write about being asexual,” suggests Leia as they wait for Han in the study room.

“I could,” agrees Luke, “but I won’t.”

Leia makes the most unattractive whining sound, completely disgusted; it never fails to make Luke smile, even if he is the target. “Why are you so resistant to living your truth?”

“‘Living my truth?’ Sake of the Force, Leia, when did you start speaking motivational poster-ese?”

“Yeah,” Han says. “What he said.”

“Do you even _know_ what he said?”

“No, but I’m sure I agree with it.” Han hefts his bag onto the table. “Unless it’s about my speeder?”

Luke mirrors Leia’s previous distaste. “It’s a piece of junk!”

“It’s the fastest car on campus!”

“And looks like you pulled it out of a garbage chute!”

“Basic,” Leia reminds them, head in her hands. “We’re here to shout about Basic, remember?”

“More’s the pity,” but Han slumps down into his seat across from Luke, anyway.

She gives them a modicum of privacy when they exchange their papers, which Luke is glad for. Leia’s his best friend, but he knows she’d give him shit about how little effort he obviously didn’t put into it. Luke hasn’t even typed it yet, just scrawled it into a college ruled notebook, but he does have the decency to be embarrassed when Han hands over his, even if it _is_ printed in fourteen-point Helvetica.

“You’re smiling,” Han points out. “What’s funny?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.”

Luke runs a finger underneath the first line of text. “You’re padding your paper with double-spaces and a big font.”

Han scowls, as Luke expected, but, “You’re a real fuckhead, you know that?”

“How?” Luke sets the paper back down on the table, suddenly too heavy for his hand. “I mean, I was teasing you, but—”

“It makes it easier for me to read.”

 _Oh._ “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh’.”

Luke leans back in his poorly-padded library chair. “I’m not that much of a dick, I swear.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Han scoffs.

“I didn’t know, okay? I doubt most people do.”

Han visibly deflates. Luke’s never seen him do anything but puff up like an oversexed peacock. “I guess I’m just nervous about the assignment.” He bites his lip; it’s unfairly endearing. “Never written about this in depth before.”

“What did you write about?”

“You could read it.”

So Luke gives him a skeptical look, then picks the paper back up off the table. It may be easier for Han to read, but it’s making Luke go cross-eyed. He tries not to let it show, determined not to insult his friend—

Friend. Luke blinks. Shit. His essay actually is a lesson in self pity.

“Luke?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. Again.” Luke decides not to elaborate, turning his attention back to Han’s work.

**_The most pivotal moment of my entire life was the day I lost my family. Moving out and setting off on my own was hard, but not as hard as thinking it was my fault. It’s taken me several years to understand that it isn’t on me. When you come from a long line of traditional people, coming out as transgender is bound to make some waves. I’ve used this experience to fuel my determination to make a name for myself and to redefine what it means to be a Solo._ **

Yeah, Luke’s going to burn his own essay. Literally.

He keeps reading, learning about how hard Han’s worked to be taken seriously as a student (if only in the subjects that interest him) and to find people who accepted him as a trans man (which the Alliance is looking better and better to Luke now) and to come to terms with his gender and what that means and how it shapes his life. Luke’s astonished, and bewildered, and completely, totally ashamed for never seeing Han as anything but a nuisance. Han’s a person; Luke has been so self-absorbed that he’s forgotten to acknowledge anyone else but Leia as being even close to important and valid.

“Please,” says Han quietly, “fucking say something.”

“It’s good. Really good. There’s some technical issues, and it’s too short, but it’s, well.” Luke looks back down at the paper in his hands. “It’s good.”

Han exhales heavily with relief. “Thank the fucking Force. I think I’m in a relationship with the dictionary at this point.”

“Is it complicated?”

“Life’s complicated, kid.”

And Luke can’t disagree with that. Even so, he reaches back across the table and takes his own essay back. “I didn’t even try on mine. I’ll work on it tonight.” He meets Han’s eyes—weren’t they hazel yesterday, not blue?—and tells him, “I want to be braver with it.”

“I’m not brave.”

“You are, Han. It takes guts to do this—to write this.”

If Han smiles any wider, he’s going to break his face. “Thanks. That, uh.” He suddenly looks away; there’s no way he’s blushing. That’s impossible. “How—how am I supposed to peer review you, though?”

Luke hums, compulsively thumbing the pages of his notebook. “We could meet up somewhere tomorrow. Maybe the caf shop on campus?”

“Oh, man. They have the best house blend. Chewie says their sweetcakes are good, too, but I haven’t—”

“I love sweetcakes.”

 

* * *

 

Luke really, _really_ loves sweetcakes, to the point where his friends back home would tease him over it. Leia never developed his particular love for sugary foods; she’d been crunchy even back when they were kids, before the accident. He’d have chalked up his addiction to calorie-riddled snack food to a psychological need for comfort food years ago if it wasn’t for Aunt Beru telling Luke it reminded her of his father, and that Luke was too skinny, and didn’t he know that Uncle Owen wasn’t going to taste test this batch for her.

“Shit,” Han says from across the booth. He’s sprawled out all over the place—“manspreading,” Leia calls it. Whatever it’s called, Han’s turned it into an art; one arm is thrown back over the seat to hang into the other booth, with the other spread out along the top of it. One foot is up in the seat with him, knee peeking over the table top. The other is stuck out over under Luke’s side of the booth, but Luke is trying to focus on the sweetcake and not on how close Han’s leg is to his.

“Whuh?”

“You weren’t kidding.”

Luke remembers to swallow. It’s so sugary-tart that he considers taking another bite instead of asking, “About?”

“You love those things.” Han’s smile is almost as tooth-rottingly satisfying as the lemon creme in the cake. “You’re just over there putting them away like we’re going to go under rationing again.”

“If you’re going to make fun of me—”

“Hey-hey-hey, whoa, kid.” Han keeps making a string of unintelligible sounds, like Luke’s a skittish anooba about to attack a toddler. His hand on Luke’s arm is nice enough to make up for the patronizing tone, though. “I’m not, I don’t know, _shaming_ you for enjoying something. It’s nice, actually.”

Luke tries not to lean forward across the table as Han settles back into sprawling. “Nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Leia says I have the table manners of a Hutt.”

Han snorts; it’s an uncanny impression of Chewie. “Who cares? Everybody’s so scared of what people think of them.” He picks up his mug of caf, changing position for at least the eighth time since they sat down. “If I spent time worrying about what everyone else thought of me, I’d…” Han frowns, then takes a sip. “I probably wouldn’t be around, to be brutally honest.”

Luke wrestles with his own words. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve had it easy.”

“Well.” He takes a longer drink, then smiles again, genuine. “I’d hardly be such an attractive scoundrel if life had been smooth.”

“You might brag about yourself less.”

“Which would be an absolute disaster.”

It’s hard not to smile back. Luke doesn’t try to resist.

 

* * *

 

The doorknob to the bathroom rattles, but Luke doesn’t look up from his notebook, too busy scribbling self-confidence into his anemic narrative essay to care about Leia breaking into his room for the millionth time. He and Han have been meeting every afternoon for almost a week now, tearing apart and revising and attempting to cram the needed extra thousand words into his paper. Mercifully, Han hasn’t mentioned Luke’s missing assignment, or how it’s due next week, or how Han needs a good grade on the peer review of Luke’s essay as much as he does on his own paper.

Leia curses behind the door. “Did you change the lock?”

“Han told me a trick to keep you out.”

“Which is?”

“A trick to keep you out.”

Luke snickers as Leia kicks at the bottom of the door. “Would you please let me in?”

“I’m doing my homework.”

Leia mock-sniffles, then starts scratching at the bathroom door. “Help me, Lukie. You’re my only hope.”

“Worse than an ewok,” mumbles Luke, relenting once he can’t stand the grate of fingernails against cheap wood and letting in his enormously disheveled sister. Leia’s had some extravagant hairstyles in the past, but this is beyond avant-garde. Actually, he isn’t certain this is a style unless “lost a fight with a turbo engine” is trendy.

“I know,” she says, pulling forlornly at a long frizzy curl. “It’s terrible.”

“How did you offend your hair?”

She dramatically throws an arm over her eyes and then her entire _self_ backward onto Luke’s bed, his papers crinkling beneath her. “I asked a girl out on a date without consulting it first.”

“Who?”

Leia lifts her arm enough to look at him. “Winter. You know,” she continues, fighting a scowl when Luke shrugs, “the white-haired goddess of computer science with absurdly tasteful facial piercings from the senior class.”

“She’s in the Alliance?”

“She’s club secretary, but Winter doesn't really talk in meetings. She mainly books the room and keeps notes.”

“Oh! The girl who works in the library!”

“She’s fluent in Mando’a.” Leia groans. “My one true weakness.”

Luke rolls his eyes, trying to pry his pieces of essay out from beneath her. “So long as the speaker isn’t masculine.”

“My body is a wonderland, but only for women.” Leia takes pity on him and sits up, scooting off of his prewriting. “Anyway, I need you to help me with my hair. I don’t have enough hands, and—” Her eyes go wide as she snatches a sheet of looseleaf from Luke’s hand. “And whose phone number is written on your homework, Luke Skywalker?”

“No one in particular.” His R2 calls his bluff, bleeping and blooping like Luke’s lost a game show. “Okay, someone in particular.”

Leia keeps pulling the paper away from him—she’s always been better at keep-away. “Would it happen to be the same someone you’ve been spending every afternoon having caf and cakes with?”

R2 whistles. Luke hates his computer. “How did you know—”

“I have a vast network of spies,” Leia tells him, and honestly, Luke believes it. “So, what’s up with that? Are you wanting to speed off with Han into the sunset in that dilapidated landspeeder of his?”

Luke shudders. “I have no interest in doing literally _anything_ in his overlander.”

“A long stroll on the beach?”

“I hate sand. It gets everywhere.”

Leia sighs, reaching up to grab Luke’s chin and make him look at her. “Okay, but do you like _him?_ Is it a crush sort of thing? Have you named your ship?”

“Will you knock it off?” Luke pries her fingers from his face. “It's personal.”

She stares at him for a moment, the same look that’s plucked information out of him in the past. But this time, Leia laughs instead of being nosy. _“Relax,_ Luke. I know you’ve just been studying with him. I just wanted to give you shit for making your lock unpickable.”

“Why are you like this?” Luke doesn't know why he keeps asking; he's never going to get an answer.

“Honestly, I'm just happy you're making friends.” It's dizzying sometimes, the way Leia switches gears between teasing and sincere. Luke never knows how to react. Leia spares him the effort. “I didn't think you'd keep coming back to the meetings, you know? I mean, I _hoped,_ but you've always been…reserved, I suppose. A loner. So watching you tiptoe around your comfort zone—” She smiles, brilliant, dazzling. “I'm just really proud of you.”

Luke swallows. He slips his fingers through his hair, ruffling the back, scratching at his scalp. “It's not that big of a deal, Leia.”

She knows better, of course. Her eyebrows are evidence enough.

Mercifully, unexpectedly, Leia lets it go. “Besides, he’s totally not your type.”

“He isn’t?” R2 beeps sadly behind him as

Leia springs up, grabbing Luke’s wrist, dragging him into and through their shared bathroom. The tile floor is covered in various off-shoulder tanks and shrug sweaters and possibly gravity-defying bras, all discarded in Leia’s perpetual hunt for the perfect outfit. She's even hung her earring organizer off of the top of her bathroom door; Luke ducks, but still ends up with a pair of heavy gold pendants dangling from the side of his head.

Her bedroom is even worse. He didn't even know Leia _owned_ this many skirts.

“I'm not cleaning this up for you,” Luke reminds her.

Leia slides into the chair in front of her desk, glaring at the mirror mesh-taped to the wall. “I wasn't going to ask you to. All I need you to do is hold these curling irons,” and Leia thrusts one into each hand, already hot, twin fire hazards. “And these pins.”

“How?

“I don't know,” she admits, rolling her eyes. “Put them in your mouth or something.”

So Luke does, because he loves his sister, he reminds himself, and this is keeping him from wringing his hands over his essay and wishing for the thousandth time that he'd been permitted to enroll in flight school. He doesn't have to do more than hold the irons, thankfully, Leia doing all the work of wrapping her hair and spraying it and repeating the process over for some reason. It's a wonder that she hasn't managed to simply burn her hair off at this point.

Leia’s prattling on about something, but watching her do her hair is distracting. She winds the stiff curls into coils, weaving them into a complex open bun behind her head. He can't help but think of his mother making the same design before attending Senate meetings—a power style, Padme had called it. No wonder Leia finally settled on this.

“Which is good, because I think you’ll like Mara.”

Luke tunes back in. “Mara?” Bobby pins tumble out from between his lips.

Leia hums her ascent. “Redhead, stand-offish, dominance and muscles through the stratosphere.”

“Right. She seems…” Luke struggles for for a word. “Nice? But why are you bringing her up now?”

She winces; Luke can't tell if it's faked or not. _“Ohhhhh,_ yeah,” says Leia, taking the curling irons from Luke. “That’s the other thing I need help with. I kind of agreed to bring you on a double date.”

A series of synapses completely misfire in Luke’s brain. “You what?”

“It was Winter’s idea. She thinks you and Mara would have fun together. You both have similar interests, in that neither of you really have interests, because neither of you ever go out and do anything.” She puts on her best innocent face, glittery eyelashes blinking slowly, eyes wide. Luke’s not buying it, but Leia points out, “It’s not like you have anything planned tonight—”

Luke narrows his eyes. “I _might.”_

“And you always talk about how much you want a cuddle buddy—”

“Have you been reading my journal again?”

“And she likes sweetca—”

“I already have a date tonight!”

Leia turns, grabbing the back of her chair; she looks as flustered as Luke feels. “You do?”

 _I do?_ “Of course,” and Luke needs to have those synapses examined, because they keep speeding off and leaving him. “It’s not like I’m, uh. Completely...incompetent?”

“Who with?”

“Um.” Luke’s sweat is sweating. “Well.”

She crosses her arms across her chest, head tilted to one side, examining him. “Lukie.”

“Han!” _What?_

“What?”

 _Force, strike me dead. Right now. Please._ “Sure!” If his eyelids twitch any faster, Luke’s going to have a seizure. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together.” _Why can’t I shut up?_ “And he’s...well. Uh. Really cool?”

“Cool,” repeats Leia. “Of course.”

They stare at each other, though Leia is more staring Luke down than anything else. She’s dissecting him; she knows him too well to possibly believe such an enormous accidental lie. Luke doesn’t go on dates. He’s never even been asked.

“I’ve calculated the probability of the truthfulness of Master Luke’s statement and—”

Leia picks up a tube of mascara and throws it across the room at her C3. From his room, Luke can hear his R2 snicker. It’s unsettling.

Because Luke can't keep himself from tempting fate, he says, “You'd think you knew this already, considering your vast network of spies.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she tells him, eyeing him quizzically. “Is he coming to pick you up, or do you want Winter and Mara and me to drop you off?” Leia starts poking him in the stomach with one hand while blindly applying eyeliner with the other. She's surprisingly good at it.

When Luke says a grand total of nothing, Leia prods him harder. “I’m assuming you aren’t taking public transit, anyway.”

“Han...lives off campus?” he asks, swatting her hand away

“You didn’t know?”

“I guess he didn’t tell me because he’s going to pick me up?” Luke starts rubbing his arm, hoping she doesn't notice.

She nods, switching to the other eye, creating another somehow perfect wing. “So what are you all going to do?”

 

* * *

 

“Let me get this straight,” Han says into the phone, voice scratchy, like Luke woke him up at the ripe hour of four in the afternoon. “You told Leia that we’re going on a date, which I’m supposed to pick you up for, and we’re going—did you seriously tell her we’re going bowling?”

Luke coughs into his fist. “I panicked.”

“No kidding.”

“Could you please just help me out?”

“One condition.”

He’d agree to practically anything at this point, anything to save him from his sister. Who he loves. Unconditionally. His bossy, annoyingly put-together and brilliant—

“Luke?”

“Sorry. What’s the condition?”

Han chuckles. “You’re sitting your ass down at my kitchen table and writing your damn essay.”

Fuck. “I feel like there’s an ‘and’ after that.”

“I’m teaching you straight shift.”

Double fuck. “Fine,” says Luke, falling back onto his pillow. A sheet of paper crumples beneath his head. “Whatever. Just come get me.”

 

* * *

 

This is terrible. There is nothing about this situation that isn’t horrible. Leia is the evil twin.

How does Luke keep winding up in these Force-damned anxiety-provoking messes?

“You’re a walking disaster, kid,” Han tells him as soon as Luke opens his door.

He frowns. “I’m supposed to check you in at the front desk. We have to leave our IDs and everything.”

Han’s entire body shrugs. “I know people.” Flashing a shit-eating grin, he asks, “Are you going to invite me in or are we having a date right here?”

“I can hardly write my paper in the doorway.”

“You could if you tried hard enough.”

Luke huffs—not pouting in any way whatsoever—and dramatically sweeps his arm into his room. He's uncertain as to why he's acting like this, like Han's presence is the low point of his day, when it's the opposite that's true. They hadn't met for sweetcakes and coffee earlier, which Luke had become quickly accustomed to doing. It might as well be one of his registered classes.

This is different, though, having Han here, in his room, which Luke keeps almost embarrassingly clean. For all the time Luke spends in here, it appears utterly unlived in, apart from the posters and models.

“You make these?” Han sits down on the edge of the bed like he owns it, denim pulling across his thighs as he spreads his legs.

“Yeah,” Luke quietly replies, watching Han pick up one of the X-Wings. “I put most of those together.”

“Impressive. You did the paint job, too?” He glances over at Luke, eyes alight. “Dumb question; of course you did.”

“Why of course?”

“Ridiculous attention to detail,” explains Han. “Also your paint is thicker in tricky places, almost like you're fucking indecisive or something.”

The corner of Luke's mouth quirks up. Maybe this evening will be less terrible than he thought. Except for writing his essay, at least, though he's almost looking forward to that now.

“You have no idea,” says Luke, catching the X-Wing when Han tries to fly it over to him. “At least I'm not fucking impulsive like some of us are.”

“But the real question is: can you bowl?”

Luke blinks at him. Han is as hard to read as Leia is. “I thought I had to write my paper. Are we really going bowling?”

“That depends. How willing are you to lie to the future senator of the Republic that shares your bathroom?”

“Bowling is good,” Luke says hurriedly. “I like bowling.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, neither he nor Han have ever done anything even relatively close to bowling. Granted, even if Luke _had_ known the slightest bit about successful bowling, his frayed nerves would have kept him from playing well, anyway.

Han may have picked him up, but Luke is seriously considering calling a cab to get him to Han's apartment and then another to go back home.

“I can't believe you're insulting my speeder to her face.”

“I can't believe you call this bucket of bolts a speeder.”

Han pets Falcon’s hood lovingly. “He doesn't mean it, baby.”

Luke definitely means it, but he keeps his mouth shut on the way to Han’s, feet cramping from both the badly sized bowling shoes and having them jammed into the floorboard between repulsor parts in various stages of repair. The Falcon might take exception to Luke pointing them out. She rattles angrily enough when Han shifts gears.

It’s a blessing when Han finally parks in front of a partially cared for apartment building. From the sounds of it as they walk by and up the stairs, the laundry room is doing as well as the Falcon seems to be. Even Han's front door is reluctant to work, but they make it inside after an excessive amount of jiggling the doorknob.

Han grabs Luke’s backpack from his arms and dumps it in the closest recliner. “Alright,” Han says. “Start writing, kid.”

“Some date this is,” mutters Luke, but he sits down, accepting the lap tray Han hands him. The recliner creaks. “Does everything around you always sound like it's a gentle breeze away from from falling apart?”

He expects Han to snarl, not to ruffle Luke's hair as he passes by and sits heavily down into a beanbag in front of the TV. “Just start writing.”

So Luke does, trying his best not to be distracted by some obnoxiously loud video game. Han's colorful swearing doesn't help, either—Luke’s going to be lucky if some of his choice phrases don't make their way into his paper. He'd be scratching out and rewriting entire paragraphs at a time regardless.

“Time!” Han calls out after saving his game. He reaches out, leaning so far over that Luke worries he’ll topple out of the beanbag. “I'm proofreading this whether you're ready or not.” Luke hands over the looseleaf sheets for him to look over, but Han just squints at the essay in his hand. Luke had forgotten how terrible his handwriting was. No wonder Han was having so much trouble with Luke's suggestions on his own narrative essay.

“I could, um.” Luke presses on, hoping Han won't be insulted. “I could read it to you out loud, if you'd like.”

Han licks his lips; Luke suddenly longs to kiss the embarrassment off of his face. “That would be good, yeah,” he finally says.

Luke's not sure which of them is making the stack of papers shake as Han hands them back over. Probably Luke; his voice is shaking enough for it to be plausible.

“‘I have never felt comfortable enough to talk about myself with any sort of substance,’” begins Luke. “‘When pressed, I am willing to discuss how much I miss my friends; how I hate attending this particular university; how burdensome it is to be expected by my guardians to take a specific path with my studies. It's easy to be fatalistic in my situation, easier still to think that true free will is as false a concept in everyone's life as it seems to be in my own. However, I've recently come to the conclusion that these matters are trivial when it comes to my recently discovered truth.

“‘Saying that I am asexual out loud is terrifying, especially when my sexuality feels like a choice made to combat a choiceless adolescence. Wrestling with who I am and what others expect me to be is what truly defines me, but I know that being asexual wasn't a decision. In all honesty, I wish that I felt the way my friends did, ogling other people and discussing personal sexual attraction to them. It would be much easier. Denying my nature, however, would be no better than stripping myself of what little agency the people in my life have left me.

“‘Through this essay, I will be defining what it means to me to be asexual, and how that has affected the way in which—’”

Han's hand lands in the middle of Luke's essay. Luke hears the rattle of the beanbag as Han scoots closer to him, and then the barely there touch of Han's fingers beneath his chin. His skin is callused, but his eyes are kind.

“Did you just come out to me?”

Luke chews on his lip. All he can do is nod and gulp. His stomach is coiling in on itself.

“Does anyone else know?”

“Just Leia,” Luke says, “and only because she asked.”

Han's silent for a painfully long moment, and his eyes are damp when he tells Luke, “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Trusting me.” Han's sitting up on his knees now, hands on Luke's shoulders. “No wonder you've been so quiet about your paper.”

Luke wants to pull away from Han's innately understanding gaze. The moment is too intimate. He can't make himself break eye contact, though, no matter how close Han's face is to his.

“Can I give you a hug?”

And that's all Luke's wanted from someone since he arrived to this miserable place, a person who would be as understanding of his need to hold and be held as they were of his sexuality. Someone who wouldn't accuse of him of giving mixed signals.

Luke chokes back a sob and nods again.

Han's arms are warm around him, even through their layers of clothing. He guides Luke's head to his shoulder, then tilts his own head to rest on top of Luke's. It takes a few moments, but Luke finally remembers how to hug back.

They stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other at awkward angles, before finally moving to sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch, Luke’s tense legs beside Han’s loose limbs. Han puts on a movie, and offers Luke his hand to hold, and Luke's all too happy to lace their fingers together, essay completely forgotten.

 

* * *

 

The ride back to the dorm is surprisingly awkward; Luke doesn’t know what to say, all of his words being plucked from his gut to discuss the film that he barely watched. There was action, and explosions, and a plot, perhaps. Beyond that, Luke can’t recall.

He’s never been spectacular at bullshitting. Persuasion, usually, but not outright spontaneous manufacturing. Leia does it well enough for both of them, or all three of them now, if Han intends to stick around. Han might be even worse at it than Luke—it was supposedly his favorite movie, and he was a shaky and vague on details as Luke.

Luke tightens his grip on his backpack, watching the public-use groundcars zip by.

The trip is too short but takes too long; either way, Luke is practically bolted to his seat, trying to figure out if he should duck and run or say goodbye. There are innumerable variables now, and Luke is iffy on the protocol. Did Han’s rescue turn into a real date? Does Luke need to wait for Han to open this door? Would he walk Luke to the lobby? Is Han going to kiss him? Does he _want_ Han to kiss him?

“Kid.” Han’s grip is tight on Luke’s knee. “Take a damn breath.”

“What happens now?” Luke didn’t mean to ask, but his mouth has been doing an annoying amount of running off lately.

“What do you want to happen?”

“I have no idea.”

Han’s hand moves from Luke’s leg to the right side of his face, turning Luke to look at him. That fucking smile is going to kill him someday. “Me either.”

Luke takes Han’s advice, breathing in deeply. The whole speeder smells like Han: clustered coil vapor and Splash-On and cracking leather. It doesn’t help him make up his mind.

“I’m not a mindreader, Luke. Talk to me.”

The backpack slips down Luke’s legs and lands heavily on his feet—they’ll bear the imprint of his shoes tomorrow, laces crushed under the weight of textbooks. But Han’s lapels feel better on Luke’s palms as he leans over the gearshift and grabs them, and of _course_ this was a date, because Han Solo would never wear business casual to a study session, and how had Luke not noticed what Han was wearing, and—

Han huffs a laugh, and closes the distance, one hand warm on the back of Luke’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. He’s holding onto one of Luke’s wrists with the other, steadier and more sure than Luke could ever be outside of Beggar’s Canyon. His mouth is practiced, coaxing Luke’s inexperience into something approaching good, and Luke wants to get used to this. It’s comfortable, even further satisfying when he lets his hands wander from Han’s shirt to collar bones, his shoulders, his back.

The kiss breaks, and Luke misses it immediately. He’s going to miss _Han_ immediately, once he leaves. Crazy. Complicated. Ridiculous. Everything Leia told him a relationship would be, but Luke isn’t scared or dismissive of the concept now.

Another quick peck on the lips—oh, and that’s nice, too. “I think your sister’s double date went well,” says Han. He’s brought their foreheads back together, right side to right side, peering around Luke’s head.

“How do you mean?” Luke is perfectly content to just let Han tell him instead of moving, but Han pushes his head to look over his shoulder. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s—”

“Winter.”

“And Mara.”

Han’s nose disturbs Luke’s hair. “Yeah, it is. They are. Whatever, Basic is dumb.”

Luke can’t stop staring. “Did she just—”

“Kiss them both?” Han chuckles. “She just did, yeah.”

It takes Luke a moment or two to process the situation; when the three of them go into the dorm together, his brain stutters and stops. “Um, Han?”

“Want to go bowling again?”

Luke nods. He likes bowling.

“Sweetcakes after?”

Luke loves sweetcakes. “Sounds good.”

“Anywhere but here, kid?”

Han is sturdy behind him as Luke leans back, getting himself as far away from the situation as possible. Leave it to Leia to successfully end a double date on her own, and leave it to her to know all the right words for Luke’s own.

“Help me, Han Solo,” says Luke. “You’re my only hope.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging [the accompanying mood board for this fic](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/169449796849/basic-fluency-by-shiphitsthefan-luke)! Feel free to come flail at me on [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com), regardless. I like flailing.
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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